


Of Smoke And Feather

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Enjolras is an Explorer, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grantaire is a God, M/M, Sacrifice, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I am Grantaire, the winged god.’</p>
<p>Enjolras, an explorer desperate for adventure, discovers a lost island, famed by legend. He is captured by the natives and made as a sacrifice for their worshipped god, the inhumanly strong Grantaire. Grantaire falls in love with his new gift, despite Enjolras' strong will and protest against him. Somewhat of a Pirate AU, but obviously still canon era.</p>
<p>Loosely based of an ancient prompt on the meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clipped Wings

The hand grasped at his dampened collar, the buttoned fabric leaping to his exposed throat, interrupting an exhausted sigh with a shock of barbed pain. A hand clamped across Enjolras' set snout and nose, a torn scrap of cotton pushed against gasping lips, the fingers curling beneath his jaw and rubbing uncomfortably, with an element of intrusion, veiled by alarm, dragging along the soft skin. He gave a futile attempt of escape, straining against the strong arm slapped across his waist, roaring against the palm with bared teeth and a growl ripping throughout his throat. Paled lashes fluttered, the tension of drained muscles slacking, and the leader felt himself slipping to a forced sleep, dragged under by the rich scent filling mouth and mind with a gnawing numbness.

In all technicality of maps and tales, the island did not exist. Whereas others may back down from the statement, a nod to the fiction of such a paradise, Enjolras was urged on by it. The driving and fuelling, energising promise of adventure and potential glory and satiation, the vow of open, rolling crashing seas and expansive horizons, of cerulean skies, untrodden sands, the dusted shroud of mystery cast away to reveal an unknown shore of variable elysium-like stature. The simple sketch, the smudged ink of poorly written notes, called to him with a fiery surge of greatness and passion that others would never quite experience, the call, and the hunt.

The seas were not kind, the inadequate craft swaying and rocking with a sickness-inducing manner, heavy, cumbered and brimming with ruined books and stained charts, crates bursting with stock, salted waters lapping and licking against the rotting sides and beams, a blood-red, torn banner of a flag whipping against the livid and relentless open winds. The careless throw against the shores, the hot sands against sodden clothes, the lush green ridge upon the horizon of fruitful, fertile, bursting forest. Rocks erect and jagged, bursting through the ground as crumbled teeth, the tongue a stretched canvas of tufted and tall grasses, the roof a silken breadth of misted stars and raised morning fog. Notebooks glutted with the legends and myth of reality, sketches and observations, leaves of glistening green and mysterious, vibrant feathers tucked within thumbed pages of scrawling and entries, the journal growing within a log.

A sudden slip, his guard perishing in the wake of curiosity, inspecting a peculiar tri-headed fungus when his body was wrenched up and thrust beneath the intoxicating weight of induced sleep. The call, the hunt, and the capture.

An icy bolt of water jerked Enjolras back to reality, head snapping up from clavicle, dilated eyes flashing open with a sudden sense of clarity. He blinked, colours pooling into his vision, sweeping shapes of red and beetle-blue, earthen shades drawn with the plentiful clays. His hands were lashed at the wrist, uncomfortably forced at his lower back, sticking with the sheen of sweat plastering his hide. A new hand, just as alien as the last, was at his neck, fingers at the end of jowls, twisting his visage towards the sun, admiring the carved features with a touch of reverence hidden behind the missing-tooth grin of a jackal. A second hand, the velvet touch of a woman, was found to be upon his forehead, painting and smearing a rough circle between his glassy eyes, with what smelt like blood and oil, the crude mixture pressed into his skin. Another set of decoratively painted unidentifiable digits pinched at the bridge of his nose, prising lips clenched gums apart, daubing another revolting concoction across his dry tongue. He cringed at the sour taste, eyes blinking rapidly and throat tightening in natural recoil. A pointed stick struck at his back, and Enjolras stood by instinct, legs almost buckling beneath the sudden shift of gravity, eyes giving way to clear vision once more. He found himself in the heart of a moving pack on feather-adorned individuals and tribal warriors, spears raised and trudging forward, a weight against his hip thrust him forward to walk within them. Mouth dry as paper, he coughed and spluttered, before attempting a protesting prompt of 'What are you doing?', yet not authority could be found within his voice, tongue battling against the texture of the medicine.

A female voice, stirred thick with a tropical accent, rumbled from behind his shoulder, spitting words into his ears with a deliberation. 'You a' pretty,' she slurred, rubbing a dark-skinned palm against his restrained wrists, 'he will like you.'  
'Who?' the explorer whined in a flurry of panic, forgetting himself as he choked upon the words. She was answered with a cruel chuckle, wide smirk audible in her words, 'You will find ou' soon enough.'

They marched a little further, vast sun scalding his shoulders, golden locks shining in comparison to the highlighting rays, the green shadows tinting his vision confirming the entrance to the forest. His spine reared and erected, shoulders sliding back, straining against his bonds, muscles taut beneath delicate skin. Clarifying scorched throat with a cough, he spoke with a ringing tone of authority.

'I came to explore.'

'At te' time of our sacrifice.'

'I did not know this island was inhabited, I meant no harm nor to bring any forth.'

'Better you than us.' she hissed, lips against ear, cruel smile audible. Upon realisation that such a line of conversation would take him nowhere, Enjolras flicked back damp curls, snapping:  
'Who is 'he'?'

'A god.'

The word sent a shiver through Enjolras, fingers trembling and neck flush with pumping blood, veins growing. The myth, a forgotten, lost island reigned and dominated by an unruly god. How the creature was unjust, vain and tyrannical by nature, breaking the skulls of those who came near his hollow. The discovery of a new religion, another documented idolised worship, an entire culture built around the appeasing of a higher being. Human sacrifices, were they cannibals? Did they not abandon their own? What spider web Enjolras had entered and become ensnared by he did not comprehend.

'Wha-what does this God do with his...' the adventurer was cut off, a slovenly scrap of cloth pulled tight about his lips in a callous gag, yanked to a unyielding knot at his nape. He was forced down by the coloured individuals to his flanks, strapped with haste to what had been hidden from him before. A crumbled shrine, slabs of stone mounted about a starred crucifix crafted of driftwood, eyeless skulls of birds, peeling with flesh and feather, were strung to the six jarring arms by threads of twine, feathers gathering about the base. Enjolras attempted to struggle, to break free, to scream against the gag, and the stick came thundering against his belly, a swift strike. He cringed, doubling over in pain, face scrunching and turned to the baked floor. The anonymous female knelt in front of him, clutching his shoulders like talons upon bone, greyish skirts brushing the ground. Steadily, Enjolras met her gaze, optics glowing with rage, the snarl rising within his throat. Her eyes were round and glassy, hazed by drug, black lips still curled in the wide grin and gape of a tiger, whispering torments to her prey.

'He devours t'em.'

The cluster of alien individuals departed, dispersing amongst the shrub and bush. Enjolras craned his neck, cheek to rock, to observe the structure to his left, shading the corner of the wild. From the opposing, rounded peak of the tear-shaped isle Enjolras had observed the looming, smoke-grey and storm cloud mass of rock and mountain, yet hadn't quite come to a realisation of how near he had been drawn to it. A great face confronted him, dropping away from ridge to ground with little mercy, crumbled at one side to create a hazardous ramp, a short waterfall bubbling from an upper shelf, splashing and gushing from the lip to a stream hidden out of sight. The overhang was great, the twisted peak towering above, yet no view to what else resided upon the jutting plinth. As he tilted his vision further, littered ribs and disjointed vertebrae came into view, fallen about the base of the deathly gangway.

His head fell against the shrine, suns dancing upon his visage. Colourful birds with red and green tails of curling boughs and white down with pointed beaks waltzing about the canopy, vines draped down from tall trunks of sparring branches and leaves, torturing his trapped mind, the sonorous croons mocking his enslavement. Enjolras' heavy lids fell shut, the burnt-out optics of the strung-up craniums carved upon his conscious.

There was a scraping noise, and Enjolras' optics flashed open, blinking back to reality. A sure spark of darkening white streaked across his tired vision, a rush and rustle with the grass. He strained against the bonds, eyes wild with the need for explanation, to threaten his stalker, roaring with bared canines against the fabric.

A shadowed figure came into view from the periphery of his eye, the corners of his view. The creature appeared to be crouched, knees hovering above feet shifted forward upon toes, curled forward, strong arms placed forth as if it was about to pounce, one raised in the air as a wolf. The being disappeared, yet this only brought Enjolras to struggle, scramble further, pulling himself to a kneeling position, desperate to confront.

In a sudden, he was face-to-face with another, a grotesque visage, strong-jawed with heavy eyes and a crooked nose, mopped with tousled curls of greasy blackish brown. The face trailed to a solid neck, thick-skinned throat, robust shoulders, a strong chest exposed by tendrils of a bone-white, baggy-cuffed shirt. A hefty palm came to rest upon Enjolras' cheek, smoothing across the jutting high-bone with a calloused thumb, drawing him closer, despite the obvious flinch in his mind, despite the strength of his body. Eyes brimming with rolling seas and turquoise skies, came to meet the greyish brown of rock and anguish.

'You're handsome, a variable angel, such light, radiance.' The stranger's voice was gruff and coarse, yet the words were soft and awe-filled, gently removing the gag, slipping fingers beneath the cloth of the knot, plucking it apart with ease. When the scrap came free, Enjolras rallied a choke in his throat, spitting upon the man, panting and slumped, expression irate with distress, saliva dripping from blooded lips, words caged behind teeth and tongue to the gum. The creature wiped it from his clavicle, a lazy sweep of his wrist, hand coming to Enjolras' heaving waist, limb wrapped about the lower half on his fragile back, the ireful glance not vanishing, nor dissipating.

'That was not particularly kind, was it?' the larger man chided with a dark chuckle, deep and throat-brought. He drew Enjolras into his embrace, breaking the bonds, supporting his lesser weight, helping him to find his feet, instantly stepping away. Enjolras stood tall and erected, adjusting his crimson jacket, rubbing at his wrists.

'Who are you?' the leader demanded, facing to the prudent man, focused upon his visage, a rallied conversation if such.  
'You, you don't know? A sailor, I expect?' He gestured to Enjolras' clothing. 'They caught you, did they not?' he amended, with a slight gesture to the trodden route through which Enjolras was paraded. When no answer came, he sighed, shaking his head, before turning, deliberately, sluggishly, until the falling sun illuminated his figure, spine and jutting shoulders facing Enjolras, who had remained rooted to his spot. The disheveled shirt lay ragged, draped across his shoulders, a pair of large rips down the back, placed with deliberation to allow two, spread and stretching sooty bird-like wings; grubby feathers outlined by gold, trembling as though they had remained still for long, hidden and unused. They were bent slightly, held with grace yet shame, unkempt overall. The man sighed again, lowering his weighted head, eyes shut, expression hidden from his victim.

'I am Grantaire, the winged god.'


	2. The Crow's Recluse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attempting to ride with the prompt...

The broad feathers shook, dust driven from the flat shafts, cascading to the lush grasses in ghostly clouds. Grantaire, appearing to take some description of relief from the stretch, rolled back his shoulders, arching spine, and gave a swift beat of the avian appendages. The effect was awesome, a great waft taking the surrounding bush, impressively billowing the thin shrubbery. The strength within the broken wings was unmistakable, mottled, yet grand. It is a myth that the swan may break a man’s arm, for surely, is it not the eagle that can rip his throat?

Enjolras was struck at this revelation, he was warned and prophesied of the great man-upon-beast, tyrannising and  prowling the island with iron claws, steel fangs and a forgotten heart. Yet the bird-like stature of the supposed god, trembling feathers and bowed jaw, was unexpected. No angel could gather such myth, no demon such recluse. The mere shock could be said at this point to stun him, for he did not realise the brawny arms about his ribs before the force became too great, a barrier restricting his chest, gathering his still drugged body to the alien’s embrace.

He attempted to pull away yet his weakened senses drifted, a soft croon in his ear meddling with thoughts of abduction. ‘I’ve got you, hush.’ the words were bittersweet and coarse from the disuse of his voice, stuttering like a magpie fussing over chicks. Enjolras found himself caged inside a rough carry as Grantaire stumbled towards the sheer cliff he had been previously thrown before.

The descent was encumbered and slow, a wingbeat there, a swift glide and clamber reaching the ledge, yet short. Vines erupted from the stone, gentle waters dripping beneath. When the final platform was reached, the true sight could be withheld.

The cliff was no mere outcrop, for it receded to a cove, a notch in the mountain, a grimaced mouth to elongated gums of glimmering rock. He was propped against a jagged piece by the entrance, before the cold hand disappeared momentarily. Upon the initial ledge more bones were scattered, yet they were not as massive as the array below, thin and piscine, a salt-roped net hanging to the side by a glass jar, placed forth to collect the pooling water caught upon the above shelf. Enjolras witnessed a crow, sheen and inky wings striking in the noon sun, perch upon one of the rungs of the net, cruel beak pecking at the remains of a sorry crustacean, ensnared amongst the callous threads The outward, weathered rock gave way to a softer grey, falling back to the carved cave. The discarded viscera of a campfire was gathered amongst a small pile of driftwood and dried twigs, ashes brushed beneath the kindling. Wooden bowls, marked with a similar crimson mark that embellished the explorer’s brow, carved with elegant depictions of sharks and so forth. Bottles of murky greens and red were strewn about the corner within the vicinity of the bowls, shattered shards laying between full glass. Two pelts of wolfish fur lay crumpled on the floor, two brilliant spears, halberds removed and shifted to the gradient walls, propped beneath an egg-shaped shield, painted with reds and blues, yellow feathers at the rim. It was clear the items had been stolen from the tribe of he island.

If Enjolras was to tilt his head, he could observe the vast murals of the cave walls. Elaborate patterns, soaring birds, sunsets and landscapes, symbol and serpent entwined with the sand-red dust of natural paints, smeared with thick and unforgiving reverence to the ancient rock. It did no occur to him whom painted such a display, for another item stole his attention.

A chain, bound by a driven strut and hook to the stone, lay draped to his side, just long enough to reach the fire, yet restricting to reach even the mouth of the cove. The great demon, dragging home his…

There was a powerful crash, sweeping into perch upon the rock. The figure swept past him, ignoring the dilated blue eyes, his prisoner not noticing the rags grasped inside his fist, twisted about fingers. He retired to the back of the notch, the man busying himself with the bowls and rope in his palm, wings draped over his back like the gargoyles of France, hiding his preached wicked deeds. Enjolras took heed to the blindness of the man, vision sharpening with the instinct of a predator. He thrust himself forwards, to his knees, turning to the ledge, soft paws making no sound. Yet the arms were once again about his waist, curling around his stomach in a lover’s hold.

‘No.’ Grantaire ordered, no stutter nor croak, the word tattooed upon his tongue, manoeuvring so the explorer’s head fell below his chin, ‘Stay.’

‘I will not be captured.’ the first words were slurred, yet the effects had begun to ebb, eye shutting as though the torment would fade, and the nightmare eclipse.

‘I am alone; you cannot leave, unfortunately. They will hunt you down.’

He attempted to bat at the hefty limbs about his midriff, to crawl away, ‘I haven't lost my will.’

‘And the others found their rocks.’

That was the spark, Enjolras drove himself from the grasp, falling to his palms. Grantaire acted with hunt-refined swiftness, hurling him to the cave wall, back thundering to the stone. A leather strap was brought to his throat, a choking collar pulled taught about his gullet. A sudden weight was sagging at his clavicle, and the chain was hooked to the collar, the wings clipped and beak drawn shut. ‘Relax, please, calm down, you’re safe now.’ the words danced across his cheek, warm breath, the scent of salt and alcohol filling flaring nostrils.

Suddenly, Enjolras whimpered against the restraint of the figure, squirming against the arms bound to his abdomen, the blunt force overpowering. Only now did he realise the true strength of the demon. Grantaire withdrew, painted with remorse, hinting at embarrassment. He glanced upon heaving chest of Enjolras, rendered breathless at first hold, replacing limbs with a more cautious progression, wary and careful, as though Enjolras was indeed a literal statue.

A large hand stroked down his cheek, cradling his head against a heaving breast, the steady pulse of the demon’s heart controlling the lesser man’s thoughts. A flat palm rubbed at his back, pressing the figures together. Grantaire purred, pulling his mate into a further embrace, a wing coiling about the body, shrouding the shaking figure, eyes red, grey feathers downy and gentile.

They remained as that for a while, breathing and pulse synchronising as Enjolras’ head cleared and desperation quelled, still defiant to his position. He had arrived to discover, create advancement, not become another’s pet. The soft hum emanating from the god’s chest was, despite the instance, soothing. Drawn out moments passed, the chatter of birds and gurgle of water becoming evident, the red sun visible from the height of the cove. Slowly, Grantaire extracted himself from around Enjolras, kneeling before him, hands tucked about shoulders, coming to rest upon his forearms. He nuzzled at the mark upon the explorer’s forehead, lips brushing against cheeks and jaw. Whereas the act may have remained unknown to Enjolras, the claim was set, and it pleased Grantaire immensely.

The charade concluded, withdrawing chapped lips, resting his forehead against Enjolras’, wide oaken eyes peering with hope into the lidded brilliant blue. A slight pressure to the hand was the farewell, and Grantaire took wing.

Enjolras was left alone, chained to cove wall, leather taught to his gullet, shoulders slumped and body crumpled, as he felt himself drifting to sleep, the overpowering smell of smoke about his person.

* * *

When Enjolras was shook awake, the sky outside had fallen dark, soft rays fleeing to the far trees and jungle canopy, splattered streaks of orange and mauve blending into a swampy mess, flaming sun a bold, broad globe suspended below the the horizon. Foreign constellations, visible milky nebuli, ducking behind wisped cloud. Grantaire had returned, residing neatly crossed legged, beside the now thriving fire, stacked drift wood plunged into a flickering burst of crimson.  Enjolras noted  the slack positions of his wings, draped behind him and bent at the joint, feathers gently fanning out across the worn stone.

Grantaire was unchanged in expression, melancholy, downcast and discarded with heavy, scalene eyes and slack lips, slovenly curls swathed over his brow. His spine was bowed, shoulders limp and arms folded into lap, palm pressing wrist to thumb. Enjolras saw the clouding of his mind within the windowed eyes of the man, pale hazel hidden with white fire, drowsy, benumbed and exhausted. The filtering smoke stirred and escalating in churning grey clouds to the cave ‘ceiling’, crawling along the rock to taking flight upwards from the lip.

Enjolras shifted slightly, the weight of the chain reminding him off his current imprisonment, the rattle of the green-rusted metal alerting his blunt captor.  A sly smile shattered the glassy expression of his fellow, eyes warm with the sight of the web-eyed Enjolras. He slunk towards the chained figure, once again luring the other into tender embrace, nuzzling and nudging at his neck, snuffling. At this, Enjolras tensed, drawing away from the larger man, the collar rubbing at his neck as the tag was drawn to to the dip of clavicle. Grantaire was quickly calming him, pushing him downwards and coiling about his figure, wings wrapping about Enjolras, holding him close.

Despite his positions, blinded by disbelief and stilled confusion, Enjolras made no attempt of confrontation, allowed the feathers to enclose about his body, allowing the demon to bury his nose to scuffed nape, consenting to the sleeping weight, belly flush to back. Yet, as the dozing man snored, straddling his torso like a winged python, the nonchalant, dead expression remained burned upon his mind, a present red flag to the events to entail.

* * *

Enjolras stirred to waking, optics bleary with sleep and limbs sprawled to body, flesh aching and heavy with the burden of consciousness. Chatter was evident, rays of striking light pouring in through the jowls of the cavern, leaking through cracks and crevices of the fanged smile. The fire had long perished, ashes smeared and crumbled charcoal the only evidence of its demise, the faint but reminiscent scent of smoke now bleaching the rock. He shifted, and he felt the collar leap to his gullet, the chain preventing his view of the island and landscape about the corner of the stony pillar. As memories raised too from his subdued mind, the explorer came to note the lack of presence behind him, foged vision unravelling as he peered amongst the pooling mist, to seek out  his captor. Piercing blue optics came to rest upon a elaborately carved dish and bowl, gratified with plump fruits. He glared at the furred peaches and overly-ripe berries, stacked amongst various fruits and flowers unknown to his origin, not yet logged into his books.

He swore beneath his breath, his precious journals would be long-lost to the graasses of the jungle, his dejected boat still laid beside the jutting, natural pier he had moored her to, rather ungracefully for that matter. The pages of scrawled handwriting, jittery sketches and ink-splattered notes would now be lost to the mercy of scorpions and armadillos. It was not sorrow to the loss, yet anger.

‘I found them outside.’ the gruff voice brought his suspicions and brooding thoughts to an abrupt end, chin jerking up in order to locate its source. Grantaire dozed upon his right side, one ashen wing trapped beneath his person, the other suspended somewhat in the air, lazily folded and creased in a natural hold, face away from Enjolras. His arms were before him, legs curled inwards, appearing restless and thrown. His head was lost beneath brown curls, an nipped ear and sharp jaw protruding slightly. ‘Help yourself.’ it continued, hinting with sarcasm.

Enjolras leaned forth, chain clinking with the movement, icy metal nipping at his chest, plucking a rosy passionfruit from the dish. He nibbled upon the whitish flesh while witnessing the awaking of Grantaire how he slid forth, arching his neck and back like a cat, supported by bolt-like arms, wings falling to his side and yawn tearing expression. Watching the charade, a question drew to his mind, examining the draped feathers.

‘Do you not care for your wings?’

Grantaire grunted, shifting to his feet, the subjected appendages slack at his sides in the fashion of a cricket rather than a bird, reaching up his arm to scratch his shoulder. ‘Are you thirsty?’ he inquired, turning to Enjolras with tired eyes that melted to a reverent expression. He gave a little nod, the thorns raising in his throat.

A gurgle could be heard from the exterior of the cave as Grantaire retreated to the corner, fetching a dusted bottle with a grumble, before sprinting to the lip and launching himself, fluttering about the edge from the edges of Enjolras’ vision. There was a splash and the sound of a pouring water, before the heavy beats of fatigued wings came to rest upon the ledge. Grantaire reemerged, sleeves soaked, holding the bottle to the golden-maned explorer, brimming with clear water, throwing greenish and translucent shadows to the stone as it caught the light. He grinned, a shark-like snark as the sailor took the bottle and drank heartily. Grantaire sat astride his captive, toying with cascading ringlets, snatching an alien berry-like fruit from the dish and holding it to his lips. Enjolras instantly drew away, forcing the bottle down as his brewing rage intensified, expression irate.

‘I’m still not your pet.’ he snapped, lips lifting in annoyance as he leant further away, yet Grantaire only purred in response, placing a hand to his wrist, relaxing grip as his accidental force ripped a gasp from Enjolras. His visage borderlined upon cruel, a touch of menacing.

‘Maybe not, but I wish you to eat.’ he cooed, and continued with the act, Enjolras eventually yielding. After all, if he was to please the man, perhaps he would allow him to leave free. Or at the very least buy himself enough time to forge an escape from the prison. Grantaire noticed the lowered brow and shadowed eyes of the man, and paused, enquiring to his thoughts.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘My journal,’ Enjolras offered as a reply, ‘I must have lost it when I was-’

‘Captured?’ interjected the larger man, ‘Sorry, I see. Where exactly did they find you?’ Enjolras chewed his lip in remembrance before announcing:

‘By the stream that runs through the valley, at the curve with the strange mushrooms.’ From that point he knew he could track down his crafted port, yet, even if his escape did succeed, how would he even find way and wind from the hell?

Grantaire guffawed, ‘That is their practical hunting ground!’ he spoke of the tribesmen as though they were shared acquaintances of the pair, ‘No wonder they found you, you would have been a sitting duck!’ he waved a hand at the man, taking in his pursed lips and glare, ‘Or rather a peacock.’

‘Do not mock me, Grantaire. I had no inclination that these islands were inhabited.’

‘Yet, dear-’ the winged man’s speech was cut short as he frowned, ‘Do I not know your name?’

‘I would not give it away quite so easily.’

Don’t be like that! Come now, I mean you no harm.’ he held out a calloused hand, ‘Grantaire.’

The explorer hesitated, but surrendered ‘Enjolras.’ he confirmed, shaking the hand with fearless grip.

‘Enjolras.’ Grantaire tasted the word, allowing it roll about on his tongue.  ‘Very fitting.’

‘And I will have none of your blatant slander either.’

‘Oh?’ feigned the creature, blinking, pushing Enjolras to continue.

‘No harm?’ Enjolras chuckled with dark tones, ‘I was told of your purpose to your prisoners.’

Grantaire drew his crossed-legs closer to himself, ‘And what are those, sweet Enjolras?’ he jested.

‘How can you joke of cannibalism?’ breathed Enjolras, an expression of purest shock came to Grantaire at these words.#

‘What?’ he barked, lunging forward until he was nose-to-nose with the traveller, ‘I don’t… Who told you..?’

He jerked Enjolras into a clumsy embrace, pressing him to his own chest. ‘I never… I...’

‘But the bones, the stories...’ came the muffled reply. He withdrew shaking his head.

‘Another time perhaps.’ before stiffly adding, ‘Another day.’

‘What do you- If you don’t, why?’ slurred Enjolras, words mangling with curiosity.

Grantaire offered a soft smile, hiding brilliant optics as he looked to the ground. ‘I’m so lonely.’ He noticed Enjolras’ confused visage, before continuing:

‘I never meant to take power, they just placed me here, began to ward away their people, tell their children to behave otherwise the triilgamet would come and steal them away.’ He swallowed, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t discuss it now. You mentioned stories, what did you mean?’ he fixed Enjolras with expectant eyes.

‘The island has a legend, of a savage race built around worshipping a terrible demon.’ Grantaire locked eye contact, was he, was that a smile? ‘It was written by a lost sailor, but he was supposed to be mad when he returned, the words thought to be of hallucination.’

‘So why did you come?’

‘Why not? Why bother waste existence with the known and stable, when there are oceans of adventure waiting for the singular brave soul daring enough to cross them?’ Grantaire could see such admiration in his eyes, taste it in his voice, the expanding horizon of the ocean had become the life and blood of the man.

‘So then,’ he sighed, scratching his temple, ‘That is my legacy? Rather vague if you ask me.’ he shuffled his wings as though to prove his point. Enjolras nodded. ‘Well,’ he continued laugh evident and gullet pronounced as he yawned:

‘I guess it’ll have to do.’


End file.
